The Copper Breeches
by InMyArmsAgain
Summary: When a weakling lad shows up at Baker Street one evening, Sherlock Holmes didn't think anything remotely interesting would come of it, and frankly, neither did John. But all it takes is one little bit of information, and the boys suddenly finds themselves swept up in the world of dance, where secrets hide in bright lights,and Sherlock has a brush with cumbersome feeling. SH/OC


_**Hey everyone! Hope our English friends enjoyed the premiere of Sherlock s3! We here in America (most of us anyway) wait on bated breath for our turn.**_

_**Anyway, this story...this story is an amalgam of my midday daydreams and an recent, vigorous relationship with the canon stories. As the title suggests, this fic is primarily based off of "The Copper Beeches" with some hints of other shorts here and there. I actually can't even take credit for the title itself. I give that to Mister Steven Moffat (don't believe me? go listen to the DVD commentary for a Scandal in Belgravia). I admit that the story that evolved in my mind might be a trip for some, but it was a challenge, and I couldn't turn it down.**_

_**Warnings: Language! (slight) Original characters! Many of their names are from the canon, but the characters as you see them are unique to this universe. Also there's a bit of Sherlock Holmes/Original female character, if anyone has a problem with that (I admit, I do sometimes.)**_

_**Disclaimer: Sherlock is the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC. In addition, names, locations, and originally-inspired concepts belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I claim no ownership whatsoever.**_

_**Enjoy!**_

~SH~

Wednesday, John lamented to himself. What was it about Wednesdays? True, to most people, it was just another day, hopeful hump-day even. But most people did not live his life, trapped in a prison of his own making, otherwise known as Baker Street. And most people didn't have to live with a man so profoundly confusing, exasperating, and yet enthralling as Sherlock Holmes. The way John looked at it, such crushing monotony with a twist of chaos was as close to normal as he was going to get in this stage in life.

"For the love of God!" Sherlock growled as he stomped to and fro across the floor of the 221B. The hem of his dressing gown blew loose papers around the floor with each swift gust of his passing. "You've done it again, John. You've done it again!"

"What have I done again, Sherlock?" asked John, rubbing his temples vigorously as he hunched in his armchair. He hadn't been sitting down for five minutes when his flatmate began on this tirade.

"Your blog! You've gone and embellished on our last case!"

The work-weary doctor sighed hard, repressing the inner urge to snarl. Here they go again about the bloody blog, he ranted to himself. Sure, this wasn't exactly new territory; Sherlock had gone off on John about his written work numerous times in the years they had been working together. But the weakness in John's defense came from the fact that every single time, Sherlock always found something new to pick at, finding these ridiculous exasperations to be more irritating than the last, as was the case that evening.

"So what if I got a little creative this time around?" said John. He tried to cut the tension in the room by hiding behind that morning's paper, already rumpled up by Sherlock. "It's hardly a novice idea in media journalism. There have been far worse things written than my one blog post."

"Oh yeah?" Sherlock sneered. He turned his pale eyes to the ceiling in a mocking manner as he shrugged his shoulders, and he grabbed the idle laptop sitting on his desk. "For all his brilliant ideas and crafty planning, I have found that Sherlock Holmes is rather incapable of even the slightest bit of double tasking. Granted, I was as focused on the suspect in the dodgy old Ford as he was as we raced through the streets of Paddington, but we would have gotten ahold of him a lot sooner if Sherlock had let me drive sooner. I find there are times when a decent soldier's training comes in terrifically handy. The only difference was that I was dodging cars and pedestrians left and right instead of roadside bombs in the desert. I however prefer to think of it as allowing Sherlock the chance to hang out the window and shoot out the Ford's tires. Some people have all the fun…"

John could feel his blood pressure rising listening to Sherlock's snarky narrative, and he almost mouthed along with the detective from behind the safety of _The Guardian._ How sad it was that this was normal for them, and how they both fell into the ritual like anyone else would. But as said, that was life, and John would have thought himself a fool if he thought he could change anything about that unfortunate, particularly annoying midweek day.

Every Wednesday began with a too-early rise to the melodic tune of a vocally-pondering Sherlock; after a long night of thinking and deducing and re-deducing, all in silence, London's most arrogant detective had to give in to his need to gloat eventually, and John was an easy outlet. After his meager, sometimes nauseating breakfast, it was off into the brick and concrete jungle for a ten hour shift at the surgery, which was a torture in itself. Patients were always more impatient in the middle of the week, all with their persistent leg-twitching, gritted teeth, and angrily crossed arms. Even as a doctor, John didn't really know what an aneurysm felt like, but the headache he got after examining some of those grumbling blighters had to be pretty close. John might have been able to make his escape after his last patient of the day if not for the dreadful weekly stat meeting, courtesy of Sarah. She had her ways of getting revenge for broken dates, that woman! Then finally, after a long tube ride amongst London's post rush hour zombies, John would arrive home to reluctantly begin his second arduous job. The only respite was when Sherlock whisked off to Scotland Yard in a fit of brilliance, leaving John to his greatly appreciated solitude. It didn't happen often, but it was often enough to keep John living at Baker Street.

But then there were those rarest of Wednesdays when Sherlock found himself without a case, just like that night. Oh, Sherlock was such a cruel little bastard in his pursuit to relieve his supposedly crushing boredom. He honestly had to know how tired John was by that time of night after his own full day. But was that important? Not as long as Sherlock's transport was fully functioning. After all, what good was a well-rested assistant really? Needless to say, the time that would be spent on dangerous missions was frequently taken up by these stupid rows, which only got stupider every time.

"Oh, come on, Sherlock!" John barked. "Eve you have to admit that we gave a better chase when I was driving."

"Rubbish," snarled Sherlock. "I had the bastard right in the palm of my hand when you made me stop so that you could take over. John, in that car was the rifle used in the murder, and the drugs that caused the murder in the first place. All he had to do was make one turn, and we could have lost him!"

"Sherlock, you almost plowed over an old woman! I took over so that you didn't kill anybody with a bloody police car tailing behind us."

"Ah, it would have been her fault." And with that, Sherlock walked himself over to the sofa, swung one long leg forward, and fell backwards onto the cushions to the sound of his breathy huff. He put a great deal of effort into putting on the most pathetic little pout, as if John would take that bait again. Pressing his hands to his aching head, the army doctor let out a deep sigh, only now allowing himself the chance to rest his head against the back of his chair.

"You know, I've said this before," said John. "You need to get out more, Sherlock."

"Why the hell would I do that?" asked Sherlock. "My work gets me out plenty."

"Then perhaps you might want to get out and find something to distract you from work when you don't have any. There are only so many things you can do with Molly's cadavers before you end up running mad on a Wednesday night."

'_And there are only so many places you can take women on dates before you realize there's another reason why they don't call back.' _Sherlock could taste the venom laced sneer on the tip of tongue, but he somehow managed to keep that little gem to himself. Probably the dumbest idea he had all night, if he were honest with himself.

Just when the two roommates were equally content to ignore each other for the rest of the night, a little echo floated up the stairs. It wasn't loud, but it was surprisingly quick, and it came again around thirty seconds later. John looked toward the door to their flat, his brow wrinkling in befuddlement.

"Sherlock," he said carefully. "Did you just hear someone knocking?"

"Of course I heard someone knocking," replied Sherlock. "And whoever it is obviously has some business here that they are not terribly thrilled about, what with that awkward pause between raps, and not putting that much energy into attracting our attention."

John paused briefly to let his tired mind process that, but he was jogged back into the present when they finally heard the sharp rap of the door knocker. Not looking up, Sherlock waved aimlessly toward the stairs. "You might want to get that. Mrs. Hudson won't be back from her card game for a while yet." At that point, John was fed up with fighting for one day, and despite his better judgment (it wouldn't be the first time he was abducted from his own front door), he heaved himself out of his chair and headed for the door. He couldn't help but look back at Sherlock as he left; how funny would it be if Lestrade and his little chain gang marched in to see the world's most brilliant detective in all his pajama-clad glory, especially on a night when Sherlock chose to only where his pants to bed.

He didn't hear much as his feet finally touched the ground floor, neither from upstairs or outside, but John tried to shake off the stresses of the day as much as he could. He after all didn't want to come across as rude to anyone, especially if it was someone they knew who had enough in them to handle in Sherlock. Blowing out a breath, he gripped the door handle firmly, and he pulled back the heavy wood to peer outside.

A thin, gangly young man was standing on the front step, looking most out of place in his turquoise and white stripped jumper and slender jeans. He was obviously well-kempt, if not by the state of his clothes then by his finely coifed curly brown hair and his freshly shaven face. But the way he held himself told John that he was anything but astute or preppy. Pale hands gripped tightly to the canvas bag he carried at his side.

"Can I help you?" asked John, opening the door a little bit wider when he figured out this kid wasn't much of a threat.

"Yes…yes, actually," said the nervous lad, swallowing slightly like he was on the step of Buckingham Palace. "I'm sorry to call at such a late hour, but I'm looking for Mister Sherlock Holmes. I was hoping to speak with him."

John couldn't help himself, but he almost breathed a sigh of relief at that. A client! A client had come to save him from insanity! The door handle hit the inner wall of the opening hall as he straightened himself out professionally. "Well," he began, holding out his hand in greeting. "You're in the right place. Dr. John Watson."

"Cody Fowler," said the young man, introducing himself as he shook the doctor's hand. He certainly didn't have a strong grip, John noted, but then, he really didn't look like he would. "I really am sorry about coming by this late, but I didn't have much choice, I'm afraid."

"No-no, that's quite alright," John explained as he stepped aside to let Cody in. "We weren't exactly expecting anyone, but you wouldn't be the first person to do this. And Sherlock…I don't think he really cares that much. By the way, what is it that you want with him?"

"I was hoping that he take a look at something for me," said Cody shrugging his shoulders. He swallowed again, and John understood that he would find out everything in due course. Now he just had to shove the poor kid into the lion's den. He pointed a finger up the seventeen steps to 221B.

He entered the flat first, with Cody trailing a short ways behind. To his surprise, Sherlock had vanished from the room, and he shook his head slightly. "Sherlock," he called out. "We've got a visitor!"

As if on cue, the door down the hallway swung open, and John instructed Cody to sit down in on the sofa to wait, which he did obediently. When Sherlock strolled out of the kitchen and into the living room, John was not surprised to see that his pants, tee-shirt and dressing gown had been completely replaced by a white pressed shirt and suit, complete with formal shoes. And even less of a surprise, the boredom was gone from his face, leaving that arrogant mug that made John almost want to slug him. Sherlock laced his fingers behind his back as he began to slowly pace the floor.

"Sherlock, this is Cody Fowler," said John, motioning to their guest, and the young man promptly leapt to his feet.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mister Holmes," he said sticking out his hand, though Sherlock did not move to shake it. "Thank you for taking the time to see me, and I apologize for disturbing you."

"Don't waste your breath on formalities, Mister Fowler," said Sherlock, giving his pale eyes a half roll. "Courtesy only makes conversations longer and often more of a bore. Not to mention that first impressions can show me if your case is one worth taking. You are here to present us with a case, are you not?"

"No, I am," said Cody. "I mean, I have a pretty serious problem, and I could really use your help. From what I hear, you're the best out there." John caught a snigger at the back of his throat, especially when Sherlock said nothing to the contrary. Politeness was boring and annoying, but Sherlock Holmes was never one to turn down flattery.

"You have very reliable sources, Mister Fowler," Sherlock said with a subtle smirk. "Now, do tell us what has brought you here at this time of night before you tire me. What sort of a serious problem could bring an Irish step dancer to consult a detective?"

John actually flinched at that one, and his head jerked in Sherlock's direction. "Step dancer?" he muttered. "That's one I've never heard before." Beside him, Cody was wide-eyed with unexpected shock, and he gripped his canvas bag so tightly, his knuckles were starting to turn white.

"How did you know that I'm a step dancer?" he asked in a voice slightly pitched up from his already light tone.

"Hold on, you really are a step dancer?" asked John, almost not wanting to believe such a ridiculous conclusion.

"Of course he is, John. Really you must open your eyes sometime," said Sherlock. He stopped pacing for a moment to look Cody from head to toe. "Look at the way Mister Fowler stands; he has impeccable posture without putting much effort into the task. He has obviously been conditioned to stand straight in the presence of others, even in private company. He is a thin man, but his trousers show that his legs are muscled and well-defined, showing most of his exertion takes place from the waist down. His hair, shorn only on the sides, leaving a curly mop above that, is a look that frankly most schoolboys would cringe at. Why would he style it this way then? Either it's an outward manifestation of blatant metro-sexuality, or he has done it for a performance – more likely both. And when he walks, there is a slight limp in his left ankle, the remnants of a recent injury, likely less than a year ago. Top that off with the smudges of stage makeup about his chin, and there is simply no other solution."

John stood back and tucked his hands into his pockets. Tipping his head back slightly, he raised his brow; no matter how many times Sherlock openly deduced a man's life story with one glance, it never ceased to amaze him. But nevertheless, years of working so closely with the consulting detective had helped John to build up an immunity to the stunning side effects. Impressed though he was, especially when dealing with something as tedious as the arts, it was just another night at the office.

Cory on the other hand was not so unruffled. Just as many of Sherlock's random victims before him, the young man looked as though he had just been shot in the gut, eyes wide open as his body trembled with shock. It was obvious that Sherlock had been on the ball yet again. "I…um…that's incredible," he mumbled. He took a moment to rub his hand down his jawline, and he looked down at the smears of too-dark cake foundation on the tips of his fingers. "And every other bloke off the street just thinks I'm a pansy."

"You are a pansy, Mister Fowler. That is the nature of your profession." Without another word, nor a glance to see how his blatant insult landed, Sherlock spun on his heel and strolled over to his chair by the fire. He gestured to John's abandoned seat before slipping folded thin fingers under his chin. "Now please, sit down and tell us what your problem is."

Cory was hesitant for a moment, like a child who had just been called before a crowd. But with a jerk of the head from John, as well as an encouraging little smirk, he finally stepped forward and eased down into the warm armchair. He set his bag down on the floor by his feet as John found his place at his desk, turning his chair to face the dancer.

"Well…" muttered Cory. "Mister Holmes, I came here because I'm worried about a friend of mine."

"Oh?" asked Sherlock, his hands still steepled under his chin. "A lady friend of yours is getting herself into some kind of trouble."

Again, Cody looked a little dumbfounded by Sherlock's ability to guess on the fly. "I didn't say my friend was a lady."

"You didn't need to," said John, and as if on cue, Sherlock cocked his head to the side slightly and said, "You're a dancer. Statistics show that male dancers are shown to be acquainted with two to three times more women than men, and it is merely because of his work environment. Not many lads would be caught dead in what is still seen to be a woman's profession."

John shook his head; Sherlock had obviously been cooped up in the flat for a little too long. But for the same reason, he let it go with relative ease. He also decided it was a good time to jump in and take over on his brilliant friend's behalf. "Yes well, tell us about your friend then, Cody. What's her name?"

"Her name's Violet Hunter," said Cody. "We've been dancing together since we were kids in Hampshire."

"And what about her brings you here?"

Cody hesitated slightly, wrinkling his brow to say that he was rolling over the words in his head before speaking. Wringing his painfully thin fingers in his lap, he sucked in a deep breath through his nose and said, "I don't want her to be in a show."

Instantly, Sherlock threw his head back with a deep, breathy huff, and he pressed the tips of his fingers to his pale temples. "Oh hell, save me from imbeciles," he groaned before tipping back up to his guest, his suddenly unlikely new client. "Mister Fowler, you are aware that you are consulting a detective, right?"

"Let me finish," snapped Cody, rather loudly at that, and Sherlock and John both had to jump in their skins slightly. Clearly, there was more to their sheepish little dancer than what he appeared, and it made him only just that more interesting to London's most unusual crime-fighting duo.

"Alright," said Sherlock, coolly as he waved his hand. "Go on."

Cody regained himself with a calm breath, and he leaned back slightly into John's chair. "I don't want her to do a show because I believe that she's in danger." He gripped at the chair arms slightly to show his intent and emphasis, and the shadow of the fire flames slithered across his face. Sherlock however was still not convinced. Two fingers cradled the side of his thin face as he continued to stare down the young man before him.

"Elaborate please, Cody," he demanded. Hmm, John noticed, it was Cody now, was it? "What sort of danger could a young dancer find themselves in other than inevitable, chronic injury?"

It seemed that this was just the question young Cody had been waiting for. He let go of the chair arms, and he leaned forward to rest on his elbows. John couldn't help but tweak his eyebrow a touch; this kid must have had this speech prepared for hours. He had to if he was about to go up against the notoriously impatient Sherlock Holmes. There would be no dancing around any bushes from here on out (John actually had to wince when he thought of that unfortunate phrase), and John shot a glance at Sherlock. Sure enough, there it was, the telltale head cock. Cody Fowler had their attention.

"What do you know about professional step-dancing, Mister Holmes?" began Cody, lacing his fingers together timidly.

"Not much, I'm afraid," said Sherlock, in a tone of voice that suggested he was anything but. "So few actually reach the skill level to be considered professional that most would consider it a dying form, which frankly I can agree on."

"Well, I knew I few Irish boys back when I was a kid," John piped up. "One of them had a sister who was a step dancer, said she was trained practically from the time she could walk. All she did was practice, practice, and then compete for titles. He compared more to a sport than an art form."

"That's true, Doctor Watson," nodded Cody. "Most of the time, that is all it is. We start when we're very small, and we train our whole lives to earn titles. For most of us, the goal is to be considered for the world championships in Dublin, even more so to actually compete. But a few of us are lucky to break out of that, and that's by performing in stage shows."

"Yes, like Michael Flatley did several years back," said John, and Cody nodded vigorously to have that bit of trivia recognized. Sherlock was unresponsive save for one wrinkled brow; if John had to guess, he would say that something like _Riverdance_ had been purged from his partner's mind before he left primary school.

"Anyway," Cody continued, oblivious to Sherlock's ignorance. "I've known Violet since we were eight years old, and all she's ever wanted to be was a performance dancer. It was several weeks ago that she finally got her chance."

"How did Miss Hunter come to be cast in this show of yours?" asked Sherlock, rubbing his chin slowly. "If she wanted to perform that badly, why would you have a problem?"

"Well, that's what started all this," Cody explained. "About a month ago, Violet and I were at one of our regular practice sessions at our studio in Hampshire. Our Dance Mistress, Ms. Stoper was having us work through one of our usual routines for a fair that weekend."

"She was a tough disciplinarian," Sherlock commented in what should have been a question, but came out with a great deal of certainty. "One missed step and it would be drill exercises for the rest of the night, I imagine."

"Oh god, yes! She's the holy terror. All of us ended up on crutches at least once thanks to her…hold on, how did you know _that_?"

"Pronounced veins around both your ankles, suggesting undue stress. You really should consider wearing socks sometime. Now continue, I'm easily bored by long stories."

Cody glanced down at his bare ankles under his trouser hem, and his cheeks turned a pale pink as he did as he was told. "Anyway," he sighed. "We were in the middle of rehearsal when out of nowhere, this man came in. None of us knew who he was; he'd never been in before."

"Describe him," said the detective. "What sort of look did he have?"

"He was obviously a businessman of some kind. He was dressed in a pressed shirt and trousers with slicked back hair. He was an older bloke too; glasses, receding hairline, glasses, the whole lot. It's not uncommon for people to come in asking about starting lessons for their kids, so most of us let it go. We just carried on with our routines. Then from out of the blue, we hear, _"That's it! She's the one!"_ All of us stop mid-step, and this guy's pointing at Violet. He takes her by the arm, and then he takes Ms. Stoper by the arm, and then he pulls them both into her office. I went to listen against the door because the other girls were a bunch of softies. It turns out this guy was a guy called Jethro Rucastle, and he was the producer of this show called _Fire and Air_."

"Oh yeah, I think I heard about that," said John. "That new show that opened up downtown. It hasn't been around that long, has it?"

"No, it's only been in production for the last year or so. But believe me, it's great. I mean, it's not_ Riverdance_, but it's a brilliant piece of work for such strict style of dance. Only the best of the best are able to get a spot in the company. But this was too odd for my liking. Mister Rucastle told them that he thought Rose was perfect fit for the leading spot, and he demanded that she be put in the show as soon as possible, without a formal audition! In our business, that's about as rare as a clergyman in a brothel!"

"Alright," said Sherlock, now rising from his seat to begin pacing with prayer hands hovering in front of his face. Collecting his thoughts, John thought to himself. Now they were getting somewhere. "So a theatre producer working out of London suddenly shows up in Hampshire and grabs a little tap-dancing ingénue out of a line to put her in his show. That happens every day in show business, Cody. What makes this case so different?"

"Well, for one, he paid off Ms. Stoper."

Sherlock paused briefly and arched his brow. "Did he now?"

"Yeah," nodded Cody, top curls bouncing. "Ms. Stoper told him that she didn't think Violet could handle a job like that. She said she wasn't ready."

"Sounds to me like Miss Hunter is not star material," Sherlock said with a smirk, but he jumped in his skin when Cody abruptly barked out, "Don't you underestimate Violet, Mister Holmes. She's the best step dancer I have ever seen. In the last three years alone, she's placed in the top ten at the championships in Dublin. Last year, she was in the top five! She has what it takes, trust me. Ms. Stoper has been saying that she didn't since we started back when we were kids. It's what gets us to work at it.

"But anyway, Mister Rucastle wrote out this huge check for the dance studio, and it was cleared for Violet to join the company. Now, I wasn't about to let her go alone. Her parents are both dead, and she doesn't have much family otherwise. She had also never been that far away on her own before, and I wanted to make sure she would be alright. So I worked my bloody arse off, I got an audition for the male ensemble, and I got the gig! So off to London I went, thinking this was going to be the time of our lives."

"But once you got there, you knew something was wrong," said John. It wasn't often that he was the one to finish people's thoughts, and he silently relished the opportunity whenever it came.

"Yes," said Cody. "When I got to the theatre, I found out that Violet had been a last minute replacement. I thought that was strange because there are at least three girls that are trained understudies. They could have used one of them to fill the part while they searched for a replacement, not just grab one off the street and throw her into rehearsals. But that didn't disturb me as much as what they did to Violet herself. They made her dye her hair."

"Well, doesn't that happen a lot in the theatre?" asked John, and Cody was already on his feet, saying, "Yes, but the lead role does not require the dancer to have a specific hair color." He reached down into the canvas bag sitting at his feet, and he brought forth a sheet of laminated paper, obviously a photograph. "This is what Violet used to look like. It was taken a year ago, after the competition in Dublin."

Cody held the photo sheet out for John to take, and the doctor studied on behalf of his pondering partner. It was a professional headshot of a lovely young lady, no older than early twenties. She was pale, as was to be expected of an Irish dancer, with dazzling bright eyes that might have been touched up digitally. And then there was the hair. It was a mass of curls, like if Sherlock ever let his hair get away from him, but it was soft and smooth, framing that pretty oval face, and it was the most vibrant shade of auburn John had seen since his Uni days. There was no doubt about it; Violet Hunter certainly looked like a big theatre star.

"And this is what she looks like now."

John's eyes shifted up, and suddenly he was nose to screen with Cody's mobile phone. The picture he was looking at now appeared to have been taken discreetly from across a room, and the young Miss Hunter did not seem aware to the fact. Snapped from the side, she was leaning over what appeared to be a makeup station, wearing nothing more than a spandex leotard, and suddenly John saw how angular she was from the waist up. The only thing more startling was that those lovely auburn curls had been lightened to a vivid blonde, shocking when compared to her natural shade, and pulled back into what looked like the most painful ponytail imaginable.

"Jesus," said John, really his only response. "And they don't do this to all the girls who play the part."

"No," said Cody. "The girls in the ensemble said that this has only been done for her. But Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson, that isn't the important part."

"Then get on with it, boy," John barked; he almost paused to wonder when he started getting impatient when he ordinarily wouldn't.

Cody straightened his back, and he turned his body to face Sherlock. "Mister Holmes, Violet's been in the show for a month now, and I'm starting to get scared because in the time _Fire and Air_ has been running, no leading lady has lasted long than four months, five at the very most. I've been doing this a long time, and no show should have to replace dancers that many times without good reason, and there never is. One girl will get pulled out of the role, and another is in in less than a week."

"Alright, that's enough," Sherlock suddenly snapped, gripping at thin air with gangly fingers. "Cody – Mister Fowler, you have been running us around in circles for nearly an hour now. As I said, I am not an expert in theatrics –," (John had to actually concentrate really hard not to laugh at that one) "But all I have heard has been no more than usual show business politics. Unless you can give me a good reason to believe that your friend Violet is in imminent danger, then I consider myself uninterested."

"She is in danger, Mister Holmes," said Cody, his voice tensing now. "When the girls playing the lead drop out of the show, they vanish!"

Sherlock came to a sudden halt in the middle of the floor. His lips pursed together slightly, and his brow furrowed. "They disappear? All of them?"

"Yes, all of them. They've been through five girls, and not one of them was ever heard from again after they left. We're a small community, we know what everyone is doing when we go pro. For five girls to go missing like that is unheard of. They're not even reported missing until months later. This is no coincidence, Mister Holmes. I know something is happening to these girls, and I need you to find out before it happens to Violet."

John turned to look at Sherlock; the detective was standing with half-lidded eyes, a bizarre picture of serenity as he processed this last bit of information. John already had his theories on this one. Sherlock had dealt with many missing persons cases before, and all of them he had considered to be rather simple. Usually, the missing would be found within a day or two, and Sherlock would then demand the next case. But there was something different about this one, he could tell. It was a five, maybe a six, but there was still something that was calling to him, something about these dancers who blow away with the wind, and the ticking clock on the latest addition.

This had been a weird evening, John thought to himself. And it was bound to be the beginning of a weird case.

"You have my attention, Cody," said Sherlock, smirking. "I'll take the case. I'll just need as much background information as possible –,"

"Oh I already took care of that," Cody answered quickly. He pointed to his canvas bag on the floor. "I gathered a bunch of old papers from around the theatre, and I found some information on the other girls on outdated programs. They have their names and everything."

"Good, leave it." Sherlock tugged on the hem of his jacket, almost bouncing on his heels with a renewed energy that he only got from this sort of stimulation. "You go on back to your company, John and I will be along in a few days to check things out. And don't mention tonight to anyone, including Miss Hunter. It would be rather unwise to alert a hunter to the fact that she's being hunted."

John snorted at the back of his throat before at last giving into the laughter. "Oh god, Sherlock, that was so bad. You did not just say that."

"Shut up, John, you know what I mean," Sherlock said with the slightest hint of a snarl. He then held out his hand to Cody, shaking it tersely. "A pleasure doing business with you, Cody. You can see yourself out, right? Good." He then turned his full attention to the canvas bag, and within seconds, Sherlock was rifling through papers.

"Don't worry, we're on it," said John. He also offered to shake Cody's hand, much firmer and more encouraging. "We'll be in touch in a few days."

"Thank you," whispered Cody, bowing his head slightly. And with a short sigh and a last glance at the distracted Sherlock, he stepped out into the dark hallway and made his way down the stairs and out the door. John watched from the window as the young man sheepishly hailed the cab that would take him home for the night.

"So," he muttered. "Any thoughts yet?"

"A few," said Sherlock, fingering his way through a first edition program of _Fire and Air. _"We'll have do a bit more digging around of course. We'll need to go and see the show for one, then find a way to question the dancers about the missing girls –,"

"Talk to Lestrade about the missing girls," John pointed out. "His boys in missing persons would have all their information that Cody couldn't get."

"Yes, yes, of course," Sherlock waved his doctor friend off. He shifted over to his chair, and he reached out for the headshot on the desk. "Oh, and we'll need to speak to Miss Violet Hunter. We need to get an idea about what could be making her a potential target."

"You're really sure about this?" asked John, heading toward the kitchen. "I mean, do you think this is something worth looking into?"

"Please John, even in the theatre, big time producers don't just magically appear in an odd corner of the country and recruit young, impressionable dancers without so much as a passing glance. Even an idiot would think that there's something strange about that."

"I suppose," John sighed. He went into the kitchen to start fumbling around in the cupboards for a clean mug. He shouted to Sherlock that he was putting on a pot of tea, but there was no response. So he just set himself to making his own cuppa, followed by a quick trip to the loo before heading upstairs. His mug firmly in hand, John decided to pass through the hallway to the stairs, so that he would not disturb Sherlock, and he started up to where his bed welcomed him with open arms and warm sheets.

But just before his foot hit the second step, he caught sight of Sherlock in his chair. He was still studying that photo of Violet Hunter. John could not see any discernable reaction in the detective's pale gray eyes, but then, he never could really. So what was it that was off? John just chalked it up to his overworked exhaustion, and he carried on with his creaky way up to bed. It was normal life after all.

~SH~

**_Well, there you have it. I may go and update this first chapter before posting again, but it's a start. I hope you liked it, and kind and constructive reviews are always welcome._**


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